Touching a woman for the first time is always memorable—but when it’s a woman with decades of experience, the moment becomes something more than just physical.
For Harold, it was like unlocking a part of himself he didn’t even know was still alive.
She was sixty-eight. Her name was Beatrice, but he called her Bea. Their courtship had been old-fashioned—letters, calls, slow walks. And that night, as they finally let their bodies speak, he reached for her—nervously, reverently.
His fingers trembled.
